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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184588">i've got this thing that i consider my only art</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/drphil/pseuds/drphil'>drphil</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Established... something, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity Mention, Light Praise Kink, M/M, Masturbation, PTSD, Power Dynamics, Voyeurism, background jimmy/kim, enemies to frenemies, finishing touch of humiliation, missing scenes from 9 and 10, takes place during bcs s05e09 and e10, when your grandpa mike is mad and you wanna show him you care about yourself</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:49:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,983</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/drphil/pseuds/drphil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“And…?” Jimmy hears himself say.<br/>“And what?”<br/>He closes his eyes, and leaves them that way. They’re never going to address it again. It didn’t matter. Of course not, why would it matter to Mike? He was just getting his job done. All a part of the road traveled.<br/>Fine.<br/>He must look so goddamn pathetic, because he says in one final last-ditch effort: “I can’t believe there’s over a billion people on the planet, and the only person I have to talk about this to is you.”</p>
<p> <br/>sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569696">bagman sleazy</a></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mike Ehrmantraut/Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i've got this thing that i consider my only art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jimmy’s got this weird habit — when shit hits the fan, and he finds himself turned inward, trapped somewhere deep and far back in his unending thoughts, he runs through the same four to five shitty moments in his life. Not exponentially shitty, honestly, no deaths or losses or anything like that. Just a couple of mundane, everyday goof-ups, embarrassingly ordinary moments: one instance that he’d quoted the wrong legal text to Chuck’s wife, and been corrected by her better half almost instantaneously (and there’s <em> thousands </em> of those) (no exaggeration); one summer, when he was little, telling his father a complete lie he’d spun that his classmates constantly demanded to know if he was rich, just to see what Dad would say (it wasn’t good); the time he told a girl he wanted to impress during a field trip to the county jail that his uncle had actually just been sentenced to prison, and then realized from the look on her face that it was a little bit too much information.</p>
<p>Nothing particularly mortifying, and, comparatively, less than nothing relative to what he’s done in the last thirty years since then. Hell, it’s not even the tip of the iceberg. He has to force himself to think back on being caught in a scam at the bar, avoiding a ticket, being walked in on watching porno tapes. He’s readily accepted those memories, somehow, and not the smallest, most seemingly insignificant instances of minor humiliation. Maybe they’ve transformed something in him, perhaps they were the trigger for his development. Crucial, tiny details that, if altered by somebody with access to a time machine, would reshape his entire future, erase the Jimmy everybody knows from photographs and replace him with somebody else.</p>
<p>But those couple of moments flash before his eyes in that quiet moment of solitude, in panic. Usually in the same order. Uncle in jail first, followed by Rebecca witnessing his ineptitude, and then his father’s incredulous face. They float in and give him that same twinge, that furrow of his brow, the desire to pinch himself and snap out of the memory, punish himself for keeping it. Maybe it’s his brain’s way of trying to ground him. Maybe it’s just going haywire. It shouldn’t do that to him. Jimmy’s got enough on his fucking plate, right?</p>
<p>Like, the juicer shouldn’t render him fucking unconscious with fear, filling his mind with the sound of whizzing bullets, the smell of gunpowder. He shouldn’t have answered the phone, it wouldn’t have led him to the idea of working. Kim shouldn’t have stayed home, he wouldn’t have had to lie to her to get out of sitting there, or lie on top of that lie, or hear the disappointment in her voice when she figured them out. He shouldn’t have this effect on her, he shouldn’t knock over the dominoes like this. Because, if it was <em> his </em> choice, he wouldn’t have <em> done it</em>.</p>
<p>He shouldn’t have touched that case, he should’ve scheduled meetings, done more prep instead of launching into it. He should’ve slept in. He should’ve showered again. He really shouldn’t drive. And he might’ve snuck a shot or two into his coffee, which he probably shouldn’t have done, but who’s to say. </p>
<p>That’s done fuck all, just vaguely numbed the shrillness when Oakley dives up his ass for losing the case, like nothing ever happened. It reminds him, maybe because his brain’s now permanently hotwired to shit on him, exactly of the way he dogged Jimmy on getting booked for breaking and entering — minus the pity. Jimmy shouldn’t have left his phone on.</p>
<p>The stairway door slams behind him, loud enough to make him realize he’s finally alone. He pauses there for a moment, relieved, and his lungs feel heavy with the effort of having to inhale.</p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p>Oakley’s face is pressed through the fucking window, abruptly pinning him back against the wall, like he’s trying to worm his way out of sight in the narrow corridor. “Just so you know, I don’t think any less of you after that. You’re still…. a lawyer.”</p>
<p>Jimmy just digs his feet into the concrete, waiting for him to shut the fuck up, and he does, but even as he skips back to the courtrooms his voice hangs in the air for a moment longer, drifting away in increments, echoing in the haze behind Jimmy’s eyes.</p>
<p>He realizes he’s sweating, the sunburn from the desert suddenly blistering like fire across his face, itching underneath his clothes, like they’re too tight. The steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead is deafening, their glow useless. He thinks, second-hand embarrassingly this time, that this must be how Chuck felt.</p>
<p>Willing himself to move, he grabs for his phone. It takes a few tries, fumbling to get it out of his breast pocket, and then he’s faced with what to do with the damn thing. Who’s he gonna fucking call? His next client? An ambulance?</p>
<p>He hovers over Kim’s contact info for either a minute or an hour before he hits the button, the complete opposite of how he felt yesterday, desperately searching for a signal, to hear her, to hear her hearing him. He doesn’t even bring the phone to his ear until he hears her pick up, like it would be too painful if he went through the effort just to get her voicemail.</p>
<p>“Jimmy?” She sounds hurried, in that way that sounds like she just shot out of a room but trying to act like she didn’t. “Jimmy, hi, is everything okay?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s fine,” he says thickly, staring straight ahead, “Great, actually. Zipped right through it. Six months probation.”</p>
<p>“Wow,” she states, surprised. She probably knows it’s six years with good behavior. Maybe she doesn’t and she won’t have to know he shit the bed like this til Oakley finds her. “That’s great, Jimmy. I’m proud. Of you.”</p>
<p>She adds it like an afterthought, like she has to make sure he knows, like she has to tell him he’s a good husband. Like she didn’t have to enter a prison 24 hours ago and interrogate a drug lord about whether or not he was still alive.</p>
<p>He takes it, because her voice sounds so nice right now. “Thanks, Kimmy. Yeah, he’s glad he called. Hah.”</p>
<p>“And you’re okay? You’re,” she tiptoes, but just a little bit, “Everything’s alright?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t know the answer to that. “Nothin’ a little lukewarm machine coffee can’t fix.”</p>
<p>Kim’s relieved, enough to perk back up. “Do you want to grab lunch? I could meet you downtown. We could get taco bowls. Or tequila.”</p>
<p>“No, no,” Jimmy says, swallowing, breaking his stare from one gray, painted brick to another. “That’s okay, I don’t wanna spoil your day any more than I already have.”</p>
<p>“You have not—”</p>
<p>“‘S okay, I just have a few things to grill the D.A. about and then I’ll be home.” He has to take stock of the story after he’s already said it, not that he could refute it at this point. “Save some of the artichoke dip for me.”</p>
<p>“You can’t make me,” she says. Now she won’t touch it. “Then I’ll see you later.”</p>
<p>“See y—”</p>
<p>“And let me know if you need anything,” she adds, deliberately cutting him off. “Anything, Jimmy.”</p>
<p>“I will,” he says quietly, maybe it sounds sincere. “Can’t wait to be home.” </p>
<p>“See you soon.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who knows how much longer he stands there. He thinks about the pack of cigarettes in his briefcase a couple of times, but his feet don’t move to carry him outside, so they wait. His phone stays in his hand, keeping him from touching anything else. </p>
<p>Of all the shit he shouldn’t have done the last few days, he really shouldn’t make this call. </p>
<p>His body’s more in control at this point, stuck on autopilot. It takes a few more finite moments, but then he’s digging the tip of his thumb into the keypad, to feel the sharp pinch of his nerves more than anything. Speed dial number 7 — certified, the last resort. </p>
<p>Three rings and the line picks up; no greeting. </p>
<p>“Mike,” Jimmy says, and the word sounds far away.</p>
<p>“Speaking,” comes Mike’s voice, flat, noticeably scratchy. It brings a surge of… not relief, just cognizance. </p>
<p>“Mike.”</p>
<p>“<em>Speak</em>ing.” </p>
<p>“I, uh...” Jimmy’s not one for rehearsal, but he’s just not on his game today. “Mike, I think we need to, um. Talk.”</p>
<p>“Think ‘m talking.” His short, gruff answers almost cut through the fog.</p>
<p>“No,” Jimmy’s mouth says, the words tumbling out as he flattens against the concrete wall, “Like, here.” </p>
<p>There’s a choppy sigh, and then Mike crunches the numbers, “Yeah, not today.”</p>
<p>“Look, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t…” Jimmy’s knees bend, sinking him further against the bricks. “It’s urgent, I think.”</p>
<p>“You<em> think? </em>” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says, voice small. </p>
<p>Jimmy hears something that suspiciously sounds like a recliner being retracted. “And where is ‘here’?”</p>
<p>In the moment it takes Mike to respond, Jimmy realizes he probably thinks he’s in danger. And Jimmy lets him think it, whether it’s manipulation or just practicality, he doesn’t care.</p>
<p>“Wor-work,” he says quickly, before Mike can renege on his curiosity. “The courthouse, tenth circu—” </p>
<p>“Jesus, can’t take a day off?”</p>
<p>“I thought it would help.” Jimmy physically could not make his voice sound any more hopelessly pitiful than it must right now. “I thought I could… I couldn’t be in the house, I— Work felt… normal.”</p>
<p>Mike says nothing, so he keeps going, even though he’s not really saying anything. “I fucked it up, I completely fucked my client. I mean, I couldn’t <em> think</em>. I don’t, I don’t even remember what I said, I don’t remember how I got he…” The steam keeps running out. He can feel the ground beneath him; he’s slid so far down the wall his blazer is bunched up around his shoulders. “I couldn’t, can’t be at home, I can’t be here, I don’t know who to…” </p>
<p>It is a genuine tidal wave of relief when Mike says, making no effort to mask his reluctance, “On my way.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Outside on the street, the sunlight is dry, the air thin and still. There’s no breeze, not even when the old Chrysler rolls to a squeaky stop in front of Jimmy’s toes. He buzzes with both dread and a steady sense of ease; more than part of him expected to be left hanging. </p>
<p>He doesn’t have to take more than half a step before he’s dropped in Mike’s passenger seat, hand glued to the door after it shuts behind him, boxing them in. Even there, he can’t seem to open his dry, cracked mouth. He doesn’t look over. </p>
<p>Mike, on the other hand, snaps off his seatbelt and turns in his seat, wary but open, heavy eyes fixed on him, and Jimmy has a sort of deja vu feeling, a warm one, like it’s dark, and cold, and there’s a space blanket in a package— </p>
<p>“You can start talking any time,” Mike tells him, and it’s impatient, but it’s a gentle goading, too, a layer or two down. It’s almost getting easier to tell.</p>
<p>“You said this goes away,” Jimmy says slowly, casually, maybe. He stares straight ahead, zips his mouth tight between each prepared sentence, like he’s trying to hold something in, but he isn’t quite sure what.  “So, what’s the time frame on that?”</p>
<p>Whatever it is, this looks to be just about as loud as saying it. To Mike, anyway, of course. </p>
<p>“It’s different for different people, I suppose,” Mike replies, shockingly comfortable with the subject. Like it’s his first fuckin’ rodeo, Jimmy. His other surviving prodigies probably didn’t have to get rocked to sleep like a needy, horny baby in a crib, either. </p>
<p>“For <em> me</em>,” Jimmy persists, his favorite word; Mike knows full well what he’s trying to get at, but he also knows that it’s still nothing short of humiliating to have to reach for it. “When will this be over for me?”</p>
<p>“Well, here’s what’s gonna happen.” Naturally, it sounds like Mike’s got a manual for this; in Jimmy’s peripheral, he finally looks away, blue eyes fixing outside like they’re discussing the weather, and the tightness around Jimmy’s shoulders can unwind just a tiny bit. “One day, you’re gonna wake up, eat your breakfast, brush your teeth, go about your business. And sooner or later, you’re gonna realize you haven’t thought about it. None of it.”</p>
<p>He glances back at Jimmy to make sure he’s understanding, and Jimmy realizes he’s visibly hooked on his every word. He’s practically fucking salivating, waiting for the answer, the cure. He doesn’t bother to correct that, either, and it wins him a little favor; Mike knows he’s listening.</p>
<p>“And that’s the moment,” he rewards Jimmy, words tinged with just a little bit of warmth, or mercy, “You realize you <em> can </em> forget. When you know that’s possible, it all gets easier.”</p>
<p>Unfortunately, the crushing weight of reality hasn’t magically lifted, the clouds haven’t parted, that’s miles ahead and Mike’s ten thousand years old and Jimmy’s a newborn. Mike owes him. Well, Jimmy owes Mike, technically, but Mike has to owe him<em> this</em>, or <em> something</em>, like, impartially, because Mike’s a natural and this is just part of the deal.</p>
<p>“But what about you?” Jimmy nearly gasps with how quickly he’s trying to get the words out, like salvation is just a hurdle away. “What happened out there doesn’t bother you?”</p>
<p>It’s not even a direct acknowledgement but he hates it anyway, the admission, the evidence of everything that went down in the desert. The acceptance burns, the memories of bullets and terror and the smell of Mike’s shirt, all wrapped up in a confusing ball parked in the forefront of his mind for the foreseeable future, right alongside the fear of what Mike’s going to give him for bringing it up.</p>
<p>And Mike sits there in his freshly-ironed button-down and draws in a deep, balanced breath and says, simply, “Them wanting to steal the seven million didn’t work for me.” </p>
<p>Jimmy’s about to unlock his jaw when he continues: “Not to mention, they wanted to shoot ya in the head. It was them, or it was us, cut and dried.” Mike drums his fingers on the knob of the shifter, idle and composed, Jimmy has to look away from it, tries to breathe normally, nods, he’ll get there, too, he’s got it, he’s got it— “They were in the game.”</p>
<p>He swells, closing his eyes and biting his lip. That shit again. He still doesn’t know the answer, but this one’s definitely wrong. </p>
<p>It’s a low swipe, lower than Mike’s, but it’s still a swing when he says, miserably, “What about Fred? From Travel Wire. Was he in the game?”</p>
<p>Mike’s ready for that one, but not ready to give any explanation. “No. There was a lot wrong with what happened there.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Lalo,” Jimmy’s voice shakes as he bites back, “Lalo killed that guy. And for what?”</p>
<p>Mike is just watching him talk, regarding him, like an experiment gone wrong. Jimmy feels his hackles raise, trying his hardest to look disappointed when he forces himself to meet Mike’s eye.</p>
<p>By nature, it has little effect. “‘S not the end of the story.”</p>
<p>Choking up on the bat, Jimmy’s swinging, faster, wildly. “What does <em> that </em> mean? What are you saying? Is something gonna happen to Lalo—“</p>
<p>“I didn’t say that.”</p>
<p>Man of few fucking words, this is not <em> talking</em>. Jimmy’s in the game, but apparently only on the fucking bench, because he’s not granted the privilege of any information, he’s stuck on deck with an empty scorecard.</p>
<p>It’s just misplaced fury, but at least it gets him feeling something. “Jesus. What did I get myself involved with, here? Just <em> tell </em> me—“ </p>
<p>“Look.” Father Mike gets out his fucking story-telling voice, and Jimmy hates his unobliging cooling off, the slight, quiet stir in his belly. “We all make our choices. Those choices put us on a road. The road we’re on led us out to the desert, and everything that happened there, and straight back to where we are right now. And nothing — <em> nothing </em> can be done about that. Do you understand that?”</p>
<p>Mike’s eyes are boring into him, trying to get back underneath, pry his way back in, but Jimmy fixes his quickly blurring gaze on the maroon-lined flooring, the maroon-lined glovebox, Jesus, then out the window, waiting for the world to pass by. This is turning into everything he expected, and still amounts to nothing, not without—</p>
<p>“And…?” He hears himself say, voice cracking.</p>
<p>“And what?”</p>
<p>Jimmy closes his eyes, and leaves them that way. They’re never going to address it again. It didn’t matter. Of course not, why would it matter to Mike? He was just getting his job done. All a part of the road traveled.</p>
<p>Fine.</p>
<p>He must look so goddamn pathetic, because he says in a last-ditch effort, the one feeble jab before he trails so far behind he’s forced to forfeit: “I can’t believe there’s over a billion people on the planet, and the only person I have to talk about this to is you.” </p>
<p>Mike doesn’t look angry, not really. He grants him a reprieve, actually, with just that meaningless glare; you’re welcome, Jimmy. </p>
<p>That’s enough fucking humbling for one day. He pries open the car door and makes sure to slam it shut, but he still can’t find it within himself to budge from the curb as the freak drives away. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He gets home somehow, tail between his legs, and lies on top of the bedspread until the sun sets. His mind’s not swimming with endless possibilities and inner turmoil the way he expected, nor his father‘s or Chuck’s unimpressed faces. Actually, he just thinks about the desert. Much in the same way he’s been doing, over and over in tired circles — but the better parts. Not that there were many, but there was solitude, the affable hand of guidance, the eerie calm, Mike’s hands, one foot moving in front of the other even when he thought he couldn’t pick them up any more. </p>
<p>He sighs, gets up, limps to feed the fish. Waits for Kim, Kim, who must’ve went back to work, Kim, who probably got something done, Kim, in the game, Kim, leaving him in the dust, too. </p>
<p>And she comes home, and she looks tired, and wonderful, practically offering to carry him to the E.R. Over a billion people on the planet, none of them would do that. Still, though, he can’t bring himself to say a thing to her. </p>
<p>Even when she says she’s leaving her job, everything she’s worked for — for him. For the game. That wasn’t even one of the endless possibilities he could’ve worried about. It’s not “for” him, but that’s just a technicality, Jimmy knows where he’s leading her. And it’s bad. </p>
<p>Even better, all that comes out of him to sway the jury are Mike’s fucking words, and that alone feels like cheating on her, but they’re jumbled and haphazard, so she can’t tell anyway; she won’t be able to tell, she doesn’t know she’s in the game. God, who’s he kidding? Yes, she does, and she’s handling it a hell of a lot better than he is. She always does.</p>
<p>But he has to try and save her anyway, even though she doesn’t need saving, and she has to chastise him for not supporting her the way she supports him through all his jackass decisions, even though he doesn’t need chastising. She’s in full control of her own spiral, her own selfless choices on her own shitty road. </p>
<p>His phone won’t stop ringing, he wants to smash it in his fist, snap it in half, the familiar sense of composure under duress is nowhere to be found. He finally answers the call, there’s a knock on the door, Kim answers that, his grip’s slack, the control’s gone, all gone. </p>
<p>And then Kim looks at him from the open front door. “Jimmy.”</p>
<p>She’s up to bat. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In a decision that finally feels right, they get the fuck out of there, that night. Life has always felt suspended in a hotel, like a momentary fake reality. Especially in a swanky corporate suite like this one, but hey, that’s one of the perks of the upper-class cash flow. All-you-can-eat buffets and more potential witnesses. All you have to do is be sure to hang the do not disturb sign on the door, so housekeeping won’t find your duffel bag of a wallet.</p>
<p>It feels fake, Kim leading him around, nursing him like a wounded kit. It feels fake, how neither one of them acknowledges what happened a couple hours ago. It feels fake, the way he offers her an out and she point-blank refuses to take it. It’s definitely fake pretending that this is the last time.</p>
<p>When he can’t sleep, it’s pretty real. Kim knows it, but she lets him sit at the foot of the bed all night anyway. She lets him drift, waits til he deflates and she can get a grip on him again, mold him back into shape and push him back through the door. </p>
<p>He crafts them a whole fake day, a schedule, a new fake life, it’s only fitting. And she figures him out, the way the universe invariably seems to. She can see right through him more often than not, because she doesn’t have that fear, that anxiety. She has acceptance. What a gift. </p>
<p>His skin must be wearing pretty fucking thin. She kisses his cheek on her way out, and the way she runs her thumb along it feels like erasing her mistake.</p>
<p>The moment the door closes behind her, the skyrocketing adrenaline in his veins has no other choice but to take the helm. It feels like Mike’s still listening to him crack while Kim saves his ass, like Lalo’s kicked back on his couch and the heat’s rising to his face as he defeatedly recants his latest fake story. It digs in sharply, all of it, gives him the same unease he felt yesterday sitting in the car, but you know what? None of the guilt.</p>
<p>He finds his phone already in his hands, there’s only one way to shut this up. New world, new terms. </p>
<p>“I want an update.” He states it, casual, as casual as you can be pacing back and forth in your boxers in the middle of a hotel.</p>
<p>“There is no update,” Mike’s staticky voice tells him.</p>
<p>“Bullshit,” he spits, braces himself, then lets out a laugh at his own lack of confidence. “I wanna know what’s going on.”</p>
<p>“I think you know plenty.” Mike’s using that warning tone, like Jimmy’s going to hurt himself. Like Mike knows what’s better. Like he’s crossing the line.</p>
<p>Good.</p>
<p>“Not good enough. No. You know what?” Jimmy waves his free hand wildly, fingers flexed, sculpting the words in technicolor even though no one’s around to see it. “You— we— we are gonna talk about this, face-to-face.” Mike scoffs at his stammering, probably at his repetitive requests, he doesn’t care, he presses on. “You tell me where you are, <em> I </em> will come to <em> you </em>—” A click. “Hello?” Dial tone.</p>
<p>Jimmy doesn’t waste any time, wrestles his suitcase open, yanks his pants on. He’s on the roster, whether Mike likes it or not.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And that’s how he finds himself on Mike’s doorstep, pounding on his window panes. It wasn’t hard to track down his address, it’s not like there’s dozens of Ehrmantrauts to sift through in the Duke City white pages. The cab driver laughed at the napkin he’d scrawled it down on. He shouts at the bricks, wonders if the neighbors are staring, hopes they are. The only thing louder than his voice is the reverberating in his mind and it doesn’t let up until he’s in Mike’s living room, tossed through the threshold by the neck.</p>
<p>“Okay, okay, look,” he stutters, by way of a surrender, as Mike lugs a bag of groceries in behind him with about the same amount of effort. Jimmy corners himself as Mike shoves him aside, bracing himself there by the door, poised for an easy exit. But he’s not punched out. Not yet, anyway.</p>
<p>“Y-you saved my life.” Silence. “Thank you, for that.” </p>
<p>Dead air. That didn’t raise the iron curtain. Nobody can say he didn’t make an effort. He draws in a breath and launches over the cliff without looking.</p>
<p>“But from here on out, I’ve gotta be kept in the loop, man!” It already sounds like a whine, dissolving into nothing when he remembers he’s got no script for this. “It’s not my fault that I got ambushed, why did I have to lie about that?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t even give Mike a chance to respond, pacing back and forth, same as he had on the phone, shouting, uncontrolled. There’s some old-ass cuckoo clock on the wall, because of course Mike has one of those; he only notices it because his stomps line up with the incessantly loud ticking it makes, and it aggravates him even further. Mike suddenly looks small to him. Jimmy must look utterly psychotic. He feels like he’s glowing. Like, aflame.</p>
<p>“Who was I lying for?! Tell me what is happening. <em> Now</em>.”</p>
<p>Mike narrows his eyes, says, very sternly, “That’s not your concern.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come on!” He’s fucking shaking, he knows Mike can see it but he keeps going, keeps pushing. “You are not blowing me off with that ‘that’s the end of the story’ crap — I want <em> specifics</em>.”</p>
<p>Unmoved by the spit all over his face, the surly asshole does nothing but repeat himself. “You’re asking for information you can’t have.”</p>
<p>For some reason, that one’s the coup de grace. Just that tiny denial, one of thousands of drops in the bucket. Look where they got him. He covers his face, hands hot on his brow, tears threatening to brim over, which just makes him sneer through it at his own inadequacy. Mike not giving him anything to work with with Salamanco on his ass, Kim out there in the thick of his shitty, self-righteous arc of redemption, and coming down from whatever the fuck mania this is, it all gathers in his throat and twists in there so deeply that he can barely form another meager, defeated word. </p>
<p>Back against the pillar, he looks aimlessly towards the door, towards Kim, away from Mike, and grits out in his final recourse, “If anything happens to her, I can’t do this.”</p>
<p>Lashing out with his marriage almost feels like a threat in a small way, even though he knows Mike doesn’t give a shit. He doesn’t say anything about how Lalo already knew Kim before he turned up at their door, just like Mike said he would. Nor does he say anything about how Kim gets to know about Mike now, how Kim knows Mike’s his “guy” — He’s a hundred guys’ “guy,” it’s nothing special. Mike knows that Kim’s in the game and he knows that he saved Jimmy’s life. Jimmy really can’t offer him anything. </p>
<p>But it does something. The way Mike stares at him changes, softens. Maybe he had a wife once. Maybe he hates seeing Jimmy like this, a pathetic slog of a man. Maybe he just hates pathetic slogs. </p>
<p>Whatever it is, it does the fucking trick. The big ol’ softie nods, once, twice, grunting in consideration, and finally says, “Alright.”</p>
<p>It’s immediately followed by an angry, “You<em> listen</em>, and you <em> shut up</em>,” but it worked, he’s in, he’s so desperate and pathetic that Mike has no choice but to gather him up off the ground one more time. When he takes an amicable step forward Jimmy all but rushes into his arms to meet him in the middle, stopping himself just short of throttling distance.</p>
<p>“This man has other things on his mind, he’s not thinking about you.” </p>
<p>He doesn’t expound, doesn’t give Jimmy a list of bulletpoints and examples like his unwound haywire brain would opt for, but it’s solid enough for Jimmy to garner some relief, screw up his face in an effort not to weep. Before he can read much further into that sentence, though, Mike tosses him his bone. </p>
<p>“Lalo Salamanca is going to die.” Mike’s face is like stone. He knows he shouldn’t be saying this. It really hits that sweet, satiating spot. “Tonight.”</p>
<p>Jimmy feels the hard surface of the pillar behind him again, Mike’s keeping him treed there. “Tonight?” he parrots, half confirmation, half to prove to Mike that he could succeed in getting something out of him.</p>
<p>“This time tomorrow, it’ll be done.”</p>
<p>Silence. The ticking of the clock returns. His fingers are pinned behind him, gripping the sharp edge of the molding, and he sags down against it as he says quietly, “Oh.”</p>
<p>“Now,” Mike says, like he’s peeling off the gloves, cleaning his hands of the mess, “I need you to leave. I have family coming over.”</p>
<p>Wings pinned under the microscope, Jimmy squirms, just like he did in the desert, in the car. This is where Jimmy has to listen and obey. It’s the trump card. Mike doesn’t budge, doesn’t let up, waiting for him to thank him and scuttle out woefully. </p>
<p>Mind swimming, barely listening to him, Jimmy looks everywhere but at Mike, takes in the house for the first time, and things start to come into focus. Past that loud-ass clock, it’s mostly what you’d expect, minus a couple of doilies and a plastic-covered couch, the dwelling of a single old guy. Not the style of a guy on the move, though, his home looks worn-in, used. He’s got an exorbitant amount of books, old knick knacks, and Jimmy can’t peg if he’d actually touched any of them or not. Nothing’s dusty—</p>
<p>Mike steps in closer, threateningly, and Jimmy realizes he isn’t shrinking away. Whatever stressor it is that gives him his deluded vitality back, he uses it to push himself off the pillar, straighten up in Mike’s face. </p>
<p>Mike gives him one of his slow, offended blinks, waiting, and Jimmy is sure to choose his words as carefully as he can when he says, “I need you to tell me one more thing.”</p>
<p>“<em>I </em> need you to go.”</p>
<p>“In the desert,” Jimmy swallows, and his eyes fall for a second, only a second. “When we… What did, what did you mean, when…” </p>
<p>“Christ.” Mike turns to unpack his groceries, but Jimmy reaches out and grabs him by the arm, hard.</p>
<p>“What the hell did that mean, Mike?” Jimmy shoves him, makes him stumble off-balance, he must be feeling really brave. “What was that for?” </p>
<p>“I got us home,” Mike answers shortly. He shakes his grasp but doesn’t turn away.</p>
<p>“You <em> dirty talked </em> me in the middle of a desert,” Jimmy hisses, like anyone’s around to hear. “You tucked me <em> in! </em> I don’t remember them teaching that in the academy—”</p>
<p>Mike looks like he’s on the brink of insanity himself, like he could stab Jimmy and step over his body with the knife to make lunch for his grandchildren. He squares up, bares his teeth, says, “It is in your best interest to leave. Now.”</p>
<p>Jimmy nearly does, he almost takes a step back, his legs fully aware of where the door is, and where the danger is, but standing in the middle of this room suddenly feels like a fever dream; like the hotel, a swirling, paltry fog of a fake life, fake Mike, fake Jimmy. </p>
<p>“So, you were just delirious, huh? Dehydrated, maybe. Is that it?”</p>
<p>“You seem to think I’m fucking around—”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t important,” Jimmy challenges, the blood flowing through his limbs again, hot and fast. The clock ticks. “You were just ‘followin’ the rules.’ Doing a job. A pretty fuckin’ eccentric job, if you ask me, but hey, work’s work! Right? Am I getting warmer?”</p>
<p>Mike’s hand is in his face, threatening to grab him by the shirt, and then after a beat it does, firmly, cautionary.</p>
<p>Jimmy stands his ground even though it hurts, even tilts his head a little bit, pulse racing against the tight line of his collar. He couldn’t tell you why he’s still going, why he’d bother to drive this point home, but something deep down is digging at his gut sharp and relentless and it just won’t let up until he says something, something even stupider, more reckless. “<em> ‘What do I do to you?’ </em> Eh? Ring any bells? <em> ‘So, are you good at sucking dick?’ </em>I mean, I remember it, pretty hazy, sure, but it was only, what, a day ago—”</p>
<p>The thread tethering Mike to logistics, long since worn thin, snaps. “I don’t owe you anything,” he snarls. </p>
<p>It’s nearly enough for Jimmy, getting him to acknowledge it alone, that there’s something there to <em> owe</em>, and he knows the incredulous smile that spreads across his face is enough to get him thrown right back out the door, but he can’t help himself. “You wanted it.”</p>
<p>“<em>I </em> wanted it?” Mike’s fist clenches against his chest, and the material is like daggers against Jimmy’s bruised shoulders, but it’s worth it. “You were the one squealing like a pig — <em> ‘I jerk off to blowing you for a parking pass, </em> ’ fucking <em> beggin’ </em> for it—”</p>
<p>Jimmy doesn’t care if he’s grinning or just giving Mike a wider target. “I guess I was,” he says slowly, earnestly, and then adds, before Mike can relish in it, “And you wanted me in your big, matúred savior arms. I did <em> feel </em> it, you know. I was sitting on it.”</p>
<p>The back of Jimmy’s head hits the molding with an audible sound, leaving him dizzy, trapped between a rock and a hard place with no room to backpedal. A rhetorical denial, a verbal contract. </p>
<p>Jimmy and his mouth go for broke. “I wasn’t kidding.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I fuckin’ know.” Mike’s voice is steady but he’s <em> fidgeting</em>, like he can’t decide if he should crack Jimmy’s skull open or go put the groceries away. “You got problems, Jimmy.”</p>
<p>Jimmy’s a little taller than him, not that that matters right now, but expecting his droning nerves to accept whatever he’s just done remains a little bit of a challenge since he’s still nailed against the wall, and pretty easily, too. He really should take at least a hint of control here, but Mike’s got such the edge on him that none of this seems like it should be any effort at all.</p>
<p>He leans into Mike’s grasp instead, flattening against the wood, like he’s baring his throat. He can’t really bring himself to parse the fear from the memories anymore. Besides, he’s got a better feeling about this.</p>
<p>That just pisses Mike off. His forearm comes to Jimmy’s throat, his eyes are closed, brow furrowed. Jimmy lets him take his time, center himself, find whatever vitriolic peace that’s required to pause his domineering-complex cycle. Jimmy doesn’t even know exactly what he’s aiming for. He could probably break away from him right now, seize the moment of reprieve, sprint out the front door and never mention it again. But Mike’s tight, steady grip has this intimation of a possessiveness that makes Jimmy just curious enough not to budge, even though he’s proved his point. He’s not the only one resisting.</p>
<p>Assessing the liability of the situation for all of half a second, Jimmy brings a hand up, and lets it fall to the front of Mike’s stupid polo.</p>
<p>The lines around Mike’s eyes tighten as he makes contact. Okay, he’s riled up. Jimmy then lets the hand drift, visible, slowly, down between them. His fingertips ghost ever so slightly over Mike’s belt, and stop there for the kicker. </p>
<p>To be fair, he might have thought about this a little harder, but the circulation’s being cut off to his brain. Just add it to his list of things he shouldn’t have done today.</p>
<p>Mike says, slower, more calculated than Jimmy’s heard him, “You cannot be serious.”</p>
<p>Jimmy’s reflexes howl at him to retract as he slides his knee out, pressing the muscle of his thigh — gently — into the layers of Mike’s pants. </p>
<p>It’s honestly more disconcerting to Jimmy the way Mike does not react whatsoever. He’s starting to tremble, he’s pinned to the wall so tightly, and the heel of Mike’s palm is on his brow, holding his skull in a vice there.</p>
<p>“You ask for a lot of <em> shit </em> you don’t deserve,” Mike hisses, so close only he’d be able to hear.</p>
<p>“Not about me this time,” he pipes up.</p>
<p>The pressure on his head tightens, ‘cause, yeah, it’s probably bullshit. His hair rubs like rough sandpaper against his forehead as Mike works his fist under Jimmy’s chin, juts his head back so Jimmy can barely see him down the bridge of his nose. His teeth grind together, he lets his eyes fall shut, mouth open, none of it helps. Mike’s close enough now that he doesn’t even really have to raise his leg to rub his thigh against him, just dig his heel into the floor, so he does, up and down, soft and calm, polite and cordial.</p>
<p>“You could just let yourself enjoy something,” he struggles to get out, but Mike just curls the ball of his thumb up over his chin and forces his mouth shut. It’s almost comical, or it would be if Jimmy wasn’t already fighting to get air to his lungs.</p>
<p>He inhales what he can around the edge of Mike’s hand and wrings his jaw open under it, mouthing at the heel of his palm, not really kissing — he knows better than that — but dragging some sloppy, formless shape across Mike’s skin until he can get his mouth around his thumb. </p>
<p>Okay, maybe he’s still proving his point.</p>
<p>He’s not dead yet, so he wraps his lips around Mike’s fingertip, using what little leverage he has where he’s being held down to work it over in his mouth, roll his tongue around it, slow, unhurried, like he’d be happy to do it for hours. He’s not daring enough to open his eyes, but it’s really helping with the visual, and the chagrin. His nerves are still fraying before he realizes the digit is moving in his mouth, pressing down against his tongue.</p>
<p>Another finger slides between his lips and pushes further in, painfully spreading the corners of his mouth as Jimmy half-instinctively, half-shaken, seals his lips around them and sucks. </p>
<p>He pries his eyes open at that, and he’s barely got time to take in Mike, leaned back, away from him, getting a better view of the way Jimmy reacts to having his fucking throat fingered. And, if Jimmy wasn’t fooling himself, if he was able to shed the surge of frustration and hold back the groan he suddenly lets out against Mike’s knuckles, he might be able to trust himself enough to see the little bit of sympathy in Mike’s expression.</p>
<p>And then they’re gone, Jimmy’s left with spit slicked on his lips and his jaw unhinged and Mike’s dropping his hands, letting him breathe.</p>
<p>Jimmy stays where he’s left. The clock ticks. He drowns it out, surrounded. </p>
<p>“I won’t, if you don’t want me to,” Jimmy starts instead of shutting the fuck up like a normal person; he’s got to cover his bases, in case Mike’s not adequately provoked, but he should be <em> just </em> infuriated enough, “but, I think you d—”</p>
<p>Mike claps his hand around Jimmy’s sore, burning shoulder and pushes him, down.</p>
<p>Jimmy hits the ground knee-first, the pain sharp and the sound loud, but he can chalk it up to foreplay, first rule of Fight Club and all that. Even there, though, he nearly loses his nerve, staring at the front of Mike’s jeans like a startled animal, dangling in space before his instincts shift into overdrive and the blood flows back to his brain. Well, some of it.</p>
<p>Mike, to his credit, doesn’t seem to be brimming with fury about this compromise, merely simmering as he stands in the middle of his living room with his attorney having some kind of breakdown between his legs.</p>
<p>“You know, this is not the healthiest way to deal with all your issues,” Mike says as Jimmy’s fingers shakily pull at the length of his belt. </p>
<p>“Yeah? Gonna decline?”</p>
<p>“Probably not.”</p>
<p>“Attaboy,” Jimmy says, and tugs his pants down.</p>
<p>He doesn’t give himself a lot of time to stop and admire his handiwork, not that Mike’s going to afford him that, but it’s more of the combination of the rush, tension and an added internal life-or-death metaphysical crisis that drives him to recklessly dig through Mike’s clothes, drag his half-dry tongue over his own unsteady palm and gallantly grab his dick. </p>
<p>He strokes it with what he’d like to market as a strong, uniform hand, but it’s pretty desperate at best, pliable and a little too fast. He uses the other one to steady himself, trying to get comfortable there, calm himself down, but Mike’s hands go to his head almost immediately. </p>
<p>While the pressure of his fingers on Jimmy’s scalp can be read as instinctive, forceful, or encouraging, Jimmy can almost pinpoint the percentage of each one, even with his head in the clouds. There’s a possibility that Mike just likes it that way. Or, more than conceivably, that he already knows Jimmy does. Either way, Jimmy lets himself fall back into it, the same way he’d done on his feet, giving himself a few extra breaths and maybe a spare moment of that sweet centering he gets from Mike’s touch. Then he complies, sinking his mouth down, Mike’s hands not far behind.</p>
<p>In all his preprepared fantasies, he’d written it in that Mike would be noiseless, deathly silent the entire allotted time before he came down Jimmy’s throat and roundhouse-kicked him to the curb, but it’s astonishingly not the case — the moan that leaks out of him trickles straight to Jimmy’s ears as he drags his mouth over his cock, and it just gets louder, and more gratifying. The fingers around his head relax, soft and heavy, warm and just the perfect size to thread behind his ears, spread through his hair as he lets out low, quiet sounds that tone with Jimmy’s pace, tell him where to go, what to do. It’s enough to make Jimmy pull off barely a minute in, replace his mouth with his hand and look up to tell him, raw and ropey-sounding already, “You sound really good like that.”</p>
<p>Mike doesn’t say anything, but Jimmy might’ve misread his “encouragement” a little bit — not that you can blame him — he doesn’t bother to open his eyes as he uses his grasp to push Jimmy right back down.</p>
<p>Jimmy’s lips get painfully pinched between his fist, and, luck worsening, the noise that comes out of him in response signals to them both that Mike knows exactly what he’s doing. </p>
<p>Jimmy stays there, eyes shut, the flat of his tongue drawn tight against Mike’s cock, working it over thoroughly like he’d done with his fingers, trying to walk the walk. This time, though, it’s harder to not get too in his head about it. Mike murmurs something under his breath, and Jimmy wasn’t prepared to listen, he wishes he could’ve heard, but the laxness in Mike’s stance is so intoxicating that he can’t recall what he was listening for. </p>
<p>Jimmy does remember how to show off, at least; he realizes he’s blowing Mike maybe a tad more dramatically than necessary, doubling down loudly to every sound, every reflex, but hey, it’s got to be memorable. Maybe he’s trying to compensate for something. This is so different from the desert.</p>
<p>Mike follows his lead easily, though Jimmy’s a moron if he thinks he’s in the lead, using the hand he’s got tangled up in Jimmy’s hair to angle his head back, exposing the whites of Jimmy’s eyes as he glances up. Mike slips up, gives him half a smile as he pulls him back til he’s barely touching Jimmy’s lips, and Jimmy knows right where to go; he chases Mike’s cock back down, takes him in so far his throat contracts and his breath hitches against the hem of his shirt. Okay, maybe not so different, in theory. </p>
<p>Mike loosens his grip there, but only for a moment, backing himself up so he’s leaned against the living room wall and dragging Jimmy with him. Jimmy winds up with a knee hooked around one of his feet, which, okay, leads him to let himself rut against Mike’s leg, just a little bit. So, maybe he’s a little hard, which he just associates with the Pavolvian response thing, you know. Guy jerks you off on the precipice of death, you blow him in a fit of crazed desperation and squandered self-worth, it’s kind of a mutual respect. </p>
<p>Mike’s fingers unfurl from his hair. “Really?”</p>
<p>Jimmy makes an irritable noise, but he doesn’t pull off, he’s not taking the bait. He doesn’t stop shifting against Mike’s leg, either, side to side, trapping his cock between the folds of Mike’s pants and the softness of his inner thigh.</p>
<p>“Yeah, you weren’t lyin’,” Mike says, almost to himself, and whether that’s about Jimmy’s fantasies or his abilities, Jimmy could swear he sounds pleased.</p>
<p>He keeps going, clinging to that last shred of self-control, waiting for Mike to grab him by the head and hold him down and just do whatever he wants until he hears, “You can… mm, go ahead an’ take care of that.”</p>
<p>Jimmy looks up.</p>
<p>Mike’s sagged back against the wall now. “C’mon,” he suggests, a little warily.</p>
<p>That’s— yeah, so, Mike is genuinely enjoying himself. “What, you want a free show?” Jimmy says because he has to, trying to sound haughty, like he has the right. He refuses to unslot his legs from Mike’s until he’s pried away, or better. </p>
<p>“I want you to quit humping my leg like a dog.” Mike doesn’t go out of his way to open his eyes, but the corners of his mouth are lifted ever so slightly if he’s speaking.</p>
<p>Maybe Jimmy’s overanalyzing again, but Mike wants him to get off, or, Mike’s making sure it happens, or Mike just wants to watch him jack off. Whatever the right answer is, it’s helping Jimmy force his hesitance down pretty damn quick — Mike <em> likes </em> this. He takes a second to hastily unbutton his pants and he feels Mike reach down and smooth his hair out of his eyes, as if adding insult to injury.</p>
<p>“If you want,” Mike adds, makes sure it’s condescending.</p>
<p>Jimmy’s eyes fall shut anyway, closing his fist around his own cock, and Mike lets out something akin to a short laugh as Jimmy sighs, loud and grateful, pushing back into his palm.</p>
<p>He keeps his dick in his boxers for some reason. Doesn’t make a show of it, acting like it’s a big secret, no Mikes allowed. Part of it is the fear of going off in a microsecond, because he definitely doesn’t need to hear about that for the rest of his working life. But Jimmy knows what orgasms feel like. What he doesn’t know enough about yet is <em> this</em>, whatever the fuck this is. And it feels and sounds an awful lot like something he wants in his arsenal, so, he elects to keep the focus on trying to make Mike put a dent in his own living room wall.</p>
<p>Mike’s decidedly content with his decision either way, and probably more so with knowing that it was his decision. But when he’s genuinely enjoying himself, it turns out to be a little underwhelming, his solid grip’s completely slack now. He doesn’t let go, just lets his hands drift with the movement of Jimmy’s head, making it hard for him to even meet him halfway. When he lets go entirely to trail down the sides of Jimmy’s face, framing his unshaven jaw lightly, kindly, the groan Jimmy lets out isn’t dramatic anymore, he really can’t stop it.</p>
<p>Jimmy pulls his own boxers down further, just to make it easier, more than anything, trying to make up for lost control. He resists the urge to look back at Mike, he doesn’t have to. He can feel Mike watching him, down on the ground, fist between his legs, silently begging for it to hurt. At least he’s got that to offer up.</p>
<p>He wasn’t sure if he was doing better or worse with the whole mouth-hand coordination thing, but Mike’s feet are flat on the ground, knees bent, and Jimmy’s secretly a little proud that his toes are probably curling in his old man loafers. He can tell he’s getting closer the way his hands ball up by Jimmy’s ears, and the thought alone that Mike would allow him to even <em> see </em> this, let alone cause it, makes him feel the same exact sparks shoot up his own spine, dig his already aching knees into the hardwood floor.</p>
<p>His id soars with the knowledge that he’s definitely doing something right, because Mike’s hand comes to the back of his head again and he says to the ceiling, slow and quiet, “<em>Just </em>like that.”</p>
<p>It’s funnier than he thought it’d be, feeling Mike and his labelled, categorized inner-disunion reduced to this — almost appreciative, if Jimmy didn’t know any better. The guy must be exhausted, he just keeps letting it spill out.</p>
<p>“That’s good,” Mike tells him softly, an abject compliment, and Jimmy can feel the desert sand under his feet. “So good.”</p>
<p>At those words, Jimmy has to yank his hand out of his pants before anything worse happens, and he’s glad he does, because Mike pointedly does <em> not </em> warn him before he comes, just spreads his fingers firmly around his head to keep it there as his body coils tightly under Jimmy’s weight.</p>
<p>Thrown off-balance, Jimmy digs his fingers into his thighs and takes it in stride, best he can. Mike’s hand doesn’t let go, so he doesn’t let off, swallowing around him, feeling him flatten against the wall further each time. When Mike gives up his last warm, drawn-out sigh, gratified and smug, Jimmy makes it a point to slow down, but definitely not stop. The asshole deserves a little bit of it. If he even gets oversensitive anymore, anyway. </p>
<p>“Alright,” Mike says, pushes him away, overlooking the way he falls back into the pillar. “Enough.”</p>
<p>Jimmy stays down, flat on his ass, using one arm to hold himself up and the other to wipe the drool from his mouth. His breath returns all at once, chest rising and falling sharply under his chin, ragged and uneven, completely out of tune with the ticking of that fucking clock. That’s the only satisfying part for him, really; he suddenly feels useless more than anything. His jaw hurts.</p>
<p>“You done?” Mike says, pants up and zipped already. His voice, at least, is ever-so-faintly shaky.</p>
<p>“The unpleasantly well-aged taste in my mouth tells me yeah,” Jimmy shoots off, not bothering to look up. “Hey, don’t mention it, by the way. Hope it lived up to all your wildest drea—”</p>
<p>“Are you?” Mike ignores him, turning to sit back in his armchair, like nothing ever happened — he even does that fucking old man tug-up of the legs of his pants first, Jesus — and then he gestures to Jimmy’s open fly. “Doesn’t look like it.”</p>
<p>The fucker’s smiling, cocking his head almost enticingly, and Jimmy just stares down in front of him, suddenly self-conscious of how his cock lays up against his belly. He shifts his knees closer together, more instinctively than not, pulling them up near his chest.</p>
<p>“That a cry for help?” Mike says it like he’s rushing to assist. </p>
<p>Jimmy’s glare is purely vain, but he sticks it anyway, gritting his teeth. “No.”</p>
<p>Fine by Mike. He looks a little amused, but to his credit, or Jimmy’s delusion, a twinge disappointed. He huffs out a laugh, probably about to say something to boot Jimmy back out of his house for good, now that Jimmy’s gotten all his classified information filed away. </p>
<p>“No,” Jimmy says again.</p>
<p>His mouth hangs open on the quiet syllable, and he slowly wraps a hand around his cock, leaning back against the pillar. “No. N…” It’s a mantra that quickly dissipates into nothing as his eyelids flutter and he tentatively resumes stroking himself.</p>
<p>Mike might want to fucking throttle him at this point, he can’t bring himself to care. It’s somehow making it better, even better than Mike lugging him into his lap or shoving him down on his knees, just making the bastard sit through it. But, he hears Mike settling into the leather of his chair, interested enough not to kick his ass, and Jimmy’s foot is sliding down the floor, knees falling open of their own accord.</p>
<p>His head falls back, tousled hair plastered across his forehead, the feeling of Mike’s fingers still burned into his scalp. That memory flits across his mind, along with a couple other pleasant recollections, but not for long. He doesn’t need them, really.</p>
<p>He’s not afraid to show Mike any of it now, he shows him exactly how he likes it. How he curls his fingers around the head of his dick, spreads the leaking precome between them, where he hooks the forefinger and thumb of his opposite hand around the base and tightens them, how his fingertips dig into his thighs, the way he always gasps once or twice from it. It feels like some kind of futile attack, a defiant little, “You could’ve done better.”</p>
<p>And he’s got no right to watch Mike watching him do any of that, but he does. It’s easier to make eye contact with him now, at least, he’s so goddamn fuzzy, just a smirking figure off to the side that happens to be attuned to his every move. </p>
<p>“C’mere,” Mike says, leaning forward, trying to grant amnesty, or acting like it.</p>
<p>“No.” Jimmy’s jaw is clenched so hard it comes out more like a moan, and he leans into it, drawing it out, louder, like a dare.</p>
<p>Mike doesn’t fall for it, he just chuckles, but that’s what presses Jimmy to suddenly cling to that direct line to orgasm; there’s no more teetering off the edges, not now, just a fuse burning quicker and quicker towards the end. It’s not the same as Mike watching him earlier, it’s not Mike watching anything, per say, it’s that he <em> has </em> to.</p>
<p>To Mike’s credit, he doesn’t even try to look away, either, not from what Jimmy can see. Just leans back and watches, the same way he did from up against the wall, the same way he did in the car, in the desert, patient and agonizingly expressionless. Because he understands, like he always goddamn does, that this is all Jimmy needs.</p>
<p>Jimmy doesn’t last much longer. The knot in his lower belly is strung so tightly it hurts, it makes his knees shake against the floor. He tries to shallowly thrust up into his own hand until he can’t anymore, and he uses the last bit of his sanity to bite back the whine trapped in his throat, closing his eyes, shutting Mike out. The pressure builds and builds until it finally shatters, the heat in his belly spilling out in splintered fragments between the uneven strokes of his palm. </p>
<p>Not that the one in the desert wasn’t worth the money, but this one beats it by a long shot, he comes <em> hard</em>. He falls forward, his hand shooting out, clutching painfully at the wood, making a mess of his fingers and the ground. He still doesn’t make a sound, but he hopes it’s enough of a display to be that last little fuck-you to Mike. I can do it better.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” he unexpectedly gasps out under his breath, slowly leaning back out of his wrist, letting himself slouch back against the pillar. He doesn’t let go of his cock, just sits back, shameless, taking his time to steady his breath, re-restrain himself.</p>
<p>He hears Mike walk past him, but by the time he’s got the wherewithal to look over into the kitchen, Mike throws a wadded up dishrag at him, hitting him in the chest and making him flinch. </p>
<p>“Clean yourself up.” </p>
<p>Jimmy does, because having a grown man’s cum on the floor is an agreeable offense, and by the time he’s raised up to stiff, shaky legs, he can actually bring himself to look at Mike, who, he’s delighted to see, remains the tiniest bit red in the face.</p>
<p>When Mike comes to face him he doesn’t even back down, doesn’t really have the energy to do much more than gaze back down at him, calm and even-keeled.</p>
<p>Jimmy registers only movement between them, until he realizes Mike’s pulling his shirt out flat, buttoning his slacks up, straightening him out. He remembers shoving his hands away last time. He’s too tired now to figure out why he does that, but he remains justifiably ill at ease as Mike starts tucking the fucking shirt into his pants. </p>
<p>“You get it out of your system?” Mike says, before Jimmy can say anything. </p>
<p>“Take it this isn’t gonna be a regular thing, then,” Jimmy says flatly, letting Mike do whatever the fuck it is he’s doing, the motions making Jimmy sway on his feet. </p>
<p>“I mean,” Mike spells it out, tugging a little more forcefully than need be on his waistband, “You’re okay?”</p>
<p>“I’m,” Jimmy blinks. “Uh.”  </p>
<p>Mike studies him for a moment, and then lets him go, stepping back. “You’ll be alright.”</p>
<p>Jimmy can’t look away, he feels a little flushed. If he wasn’t so disoriented, he’d leap down Mike’s throat in a heartbeat, but the clarity’s still there; nothing really needs to be said. Maybe Mike’s never going to come to terms with it. It’s probably better that way.</p>
<p>Jimmy thinks he’s figured out a way to address this new counterpoint when there’s a muffled noise outside, the dull slam of a car door, the unintelligible voices of a woman and a child, both growing nearer.</p>
<p>“Jesus,” Mike says, and grabs the rag off of the floor, using it to shove Jimmy towards the hallway. “God dammit— Get the fuck out of here.”</p>
<p>Jimmy doesn’t panic or make a fuss, he doesn’t really respond at all, just lets Mike push him hurriedly towards the back of the house. Right through the back door, appropriately. He realizes as he stumbles out into the daylight that he had never tucked his shirt in in the first place that morning.  </p>
<p>“Grandpa Mike!” he hears from around the house. So, he does have family. </p>
<p>Mike doesn’t offer him any further instruction, or acknowledge him anymore, just locks the door behind him. Jimmy stands there on the lawn and waits anyway, patient for the coast to clear, like he’s sneaking out of the world’s worst sorority house. He only feels a little ashamed about it. At least the irony’s not lost on him. </p>
<p>When he gets to the street, sure to waltz a few extra houses down, he can’t call a cab — his phone’s nowhere to be found. He only glances behind him to pointlessly scan the ground once or twice; it’s probably wedged under Mike’s couch or something. Maybe it fell out in his bushes when he was pounding on the windows. Hell, he could’ve just left it at the hotel, he doesn’t actually remember anything about it after Mike had hung up on him.</p>
<p>He just starts walking. It’s not like he can go get it. The ache deep within his feet returns as he looks up, trying to remember which direction to go, but he doesn’t mind it so much. Mike better hope no one needs a lawyer today.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Jimmy returns to the hotel, having called a taxi from the gas station down the street, the idea of a fine-tuned fabricated life has caught on, it seems. He and Kim polish off ice cream with enough toppings to trigger early onset diabetes and ponder all the fictional, semi-feasible-yet-unacceptable ways they could come into their riches. All hypothetical, of course, right down to the calculated percentages, but it’s worth mentioning that the stacks of cash they’d be rightfully sharing with the universe would be obtained cartel-free; not character assassination and assisted career suicide -free, but no wars on drugs. Like some kind of sick, fucked up legal Robin Hoods. The cute little foxy ones.</p>
<p>Kim seems like she’s floating on air in the midst of the illusion. Maybe this is contagious. The only time she looks remotely disappointed is when he trips up her fantasy with reality, with the weight of consequences he knows all too well, tries to draw her back to herself, her voice of reason, the righteous guiding light at her core. The one he might just depend on her to be, anyway.</p>
<p>But, you know, he has to make it look believable.</p>
<p>It’s easy this time, actually, with that weight lifted off his shoulders. It’s so serene, eating a spoonful of melted M&amp;Ms while somewhere out there Lalo Salamanca is probably being shot to death in a ravine and Mike’s planning family brunch in the morning. It’s powerful. Sometimes, <em> they </em> get to be powerful.</p>
<p>By the time they’re properly tipsy on white wine and in head-over-heels denial about their respective states of affairs, the in-room phone rings.</p>
<p>Kim makes a face, and he presses a finger to her lips, rolling over on the crumpled duvet to reach for the phone. She tries to beat him to it, but he tugs the sheets over her head and holds it down, trapping her there. </p>
<p>“Good evening,” Jimmy says into the receiver, only a note too high to be fully sober.</p>
<p>“Hello, Mr. McGill,” says a pleasant woman’s voice, “Sorry to bother you, but we just wanted to let you know that you’ve got a visitor downstairs.”</p>
<p>Now he’s fully sober. “Oh.”</p>
<p>“If you like, I’ll just send h—”</p>
<p>“No, no,” Jimmy cuts in, sitting up. “I’ll be down in a, in a sec.”</p>
<p>He hangs the phone up without waiting for a response and pointedly does not look at Kim as he reaches around for his shirt, discarded somewhere near the other bed. </p>
<p>“Where ya goin’?” Kim says, unbothered, from under the sheet. God love her.</p>
<p>On cue, Jimmy finds his wallet in his pants as he tugs them on and pats the outline of it in his pocket, change jingling. “Problem with my card. I mean, they can’t really get the neapolitan back for a while, but, whatever.” He still doesn’t look back as he nonchalantly toes his shoes on, heading for the door. “Be back in a sec.”</p>
<p>The elevator ride to the lobby takes him by surprise; the nerves almost come back, poking at the quiet surface, no longer draining and falling away. It takes an eternity for the doors to open, and even then, he’s stuck behind them for an extra moment or two. When a family begins filing in, he forces himself to dart out behind them.</p>
<p>Nobody’s left in the lobby. He looks around, momentarily relieved.</p>
<p>“Mr. McGill?” the woman at concierge says, and then he’s right back where he started as he looks in her direction. “Your visitor stepped outside.”</p>
<p>He nods slowly, and he’s pushing the revolving door before he knows it. The chilly night air smacks him in the face, forcing him to focus on the shitty old Chrysler parked next to the valet, and the figure on the carpet lining the sidewalks, leaned up against the brick wall of the hotel.</p>
<p>Mike thrusts his hand out wordlessly, holding his cell phone.</p>
<p>Agitated, but clueless, Jimmy leans in perilously close and whispers, “What the hell?”</p>
<p>“You get a lotta fuckin’ calls,” Mike says, waving the phone in front of him. </p>
<p>Jimmy doesn’t take it. “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“Do me a favor, keep a hold on it next time. The daughter-in-law thinks I got a new phone, and a lot more friends.”</p>
<p>“<em>Asshole! </em> How did you find out where I was?”</p>
<p>Mike looks away tiredly. “This is the biggest goddamn hotel in Albequerque, and, as I recall, you recently came into some cash after a pretty close call.” He places the phone into Jimmy’s hand himself. “It was not that hard to figure out.”</p>
<p>Not feeling the anxiety he should from that is new. The inferiority Mike’s words usually instill doesn’t creep in, it might as well happen, it’s just another checkmark on the list of things he’d better figure out. He sighs, pocketing the phone without even checking it, leaning himself next to Mike.</p>
<p>“Why are you here?” he says, dejectedly, since it’s safe to say what the answer’s going to be.</p>
<p>“Sure, happy to help,” Mike says unenthusiastically and firmly pushes off the wall, heading for his car.</p>
<p>“Past your bedtime, isn’t it?” Jimmy snaps to his back. Then, quieter, but just loud enough, he mutters stupidly, “You didn’t, uh, have to, Mike. Thanks.”</p>
<p>Mike turns, giving him a last look over his shoulder. Just one, up and down, probably analyzing how drunk he is in comparison to how predictable he is, and he smirks, mostly to himself.</p>
<p>“Yeah, you’re gonna be just fine,” he says.</p>
<p>He gets in his car and Jimmy watches him, fully ignored as Mike starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. Jimmy can’t bring himself to move until the rattling motor disappears, silenced by distance. He wishes he had a cigarette, another minute to think.</p>
<p>All in all, though, it seems like Jimmy can throw a pretty good pitch.</p>
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